


Before Four

by helianskies



Series: Four [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Assassination, Coincidences, Mercenaries, Modern Era, Origins, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28837353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helianskies/pseuds/helianskies
Summary: Arthur is a hitman rising the ranks, and if he can get this new target, it will be his hundredth kill—the Gateway Hit to getting bigger jobs and a better reputation. Only, just as he finally gets to his target, it turns out Arthur is not the only one out to get this unfortunate businessman and politician. This isn't how this was supposed to go...
Series: Four [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132181
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Before Four

_**August 2017.  
** _ _**Istanbul, Turkey.** _

Istanbul was a pleasant city, if you could forgive the rampant heat and how crowded it could get with locals and tourists. A crowd was not always a bad thing, of course, when you needed to cover your tracks—it could be one’s best friend and it could provide the perfect getaway once a job was complete. It did, however, make things slightly more complicated when trying to search _amongst_ a crowd for one’s target.

Arthur briefly lost sight of the local man amongst what was a crowd of protesters outside a minister’s residency. It didn’t matter which one—the only thing he knew about his target was his face, and that was how it had to be. It was how he depersonalised who he had to kill. A name meant trouble, it meant creating an attachment, however minor. So he had only taken a single photograph of his target from his contractor, and with that, he had found himself stalking a businessman-come-minor-politician up until this very point. 

His target passed two security guards and was escorted three approximately five steps to his front door, soon disappearing into his home. The protestors had not chosen violence on this occasion. Arthur did not understand what they were saying but they still sounded pissed about whatever it was. Probably taxes. ( _Everyone_ hated taxes).

He was positioned on a rooftop across the square. If he wanted, he could wait for his target to get to his office—it was at the front of the residence building, easily reached through the sight of a sniper rifle. But his contractor had requested something a little closer—a simple message that they wanted delivering. That meant getting in. That meant infiltrating, getting past security, getting the man alone, delivering that message with the crisp kiss of a bullet.

_Piece of cake._

Arthur remained on the rooftop, tucked carefully behind crates of something irrelevant (the details did not matter, it only cluttered his mind) as he kept an eye on that office window. His target would be there waiting for a meeting, due to start at the top of the hour. That meant he had a good forty minutes to complete the hit.

He had worked with smaller time frames.

As the frame shrunk to thirty-two minutes, his target arrived in his office. Routine showed that he would be alone, two security guards outside the door, until the meeting began. And since there was no way to climb in through the front window without being seen by an agglomeration of protesters, that meant getting into the building a different and more subtle way.

It was a good job he had planned ahead for this.

Arthur’s entrance was around the side of the building, down an empty, narrow street darkened by the shadow of the large home. It was a lesser-known entrance reserved for kitchen, cleaning and waiting staff, as well as some security personnel, and having made note of this during his observations the day before, he was already in possession of the outfit he required.

The inside of the ministerial residency was not unlike other rather extravagant buildings he had seen. Light and neutral colours kept the interior cool, as did the marble and stone the building had been crafted from. Walking along the hallways as a security guard, complete with a pass key and badge (stolen from a man who would not be turning up to work again—ever), meant he went unbothered. He could also carry his gun without raising suspicion. That was a luxury. 

By now, he had about twenty minutes left. _There’s still plenty of time_. But he would endeavour to not waste any of it. The sooner he was in, the sooner he was out—and the sooner he was then home with the money in his hands, reaping the rewards of his work.

That didn’t mean he could afford to be sloppy, though. This hit was vital to his growing reputation, to being more widely recognised—it was his Gateway Hit to a more exclusive list of contractors, to hits of a higher profile, to the comfort of a much more lucrative lifestyle. If he messed this up, he would be taking several steps backwards. He wanted his hundredth contract to be his golden ticket. _It was such a nice number._ If he got this wrong, his reputation would be in tatters.

There would be no dawdling. Arthur, gun in holster and poker face on, would make his way straight to his target’s office.

As he walked the ground floor, he was able to pass through a small administrative office (belonging to the man’s secretary) void of life. He grabbed some random papers that had been left on the desk, letting them become part of his ploy to get into the guarded room. It was easy enough to get upstairs—no one ever dared question security when they were armed with a gun, and they would assume he was either a new face or a transfer, nothing more. _Good._ That meant, with fifteen minutes to go, he could march right up to the door with a single sentence for the guards outside: _special delivery._

The documents in his hands became ‘official government orders’ straight from the Turkish president. He had been sent directly from the Presidential Complex, and the documents in his hands were to be seen only by the minister sitting behind those doors. A flash of a carefully forged pass was convincing enough. They let him into the room—the _suite_ , really, as the room was more like four state rooms all connected by open double doors, one to the right, three to the left—and the hitman could taste victory.

He walked through the first room on the left, which led to the study as opposed to what observation had taught him was the man’s bedroom (some things were not meant to be watched through binoculars, no matter who you were). His target’s desk was to the left hand side so it faced the windows, but was not visible through the open doors. That was hardly an issue.

Arthur took out his gun and, shoving the papers in his pocket, and attached a silencer now that he was out of view of any potential witnesses. _I’m sure hearing a gunshot would please the crowd outside._ Arthur was not the type to crowd-please.

Just before he got through the final doors, he aimed his gun ready so that it would be a simple in-out job, he could turn on his heel, and leave as quickly as he had shown up. 

That, at least, was the plan.

He _liked_ that plan—it was simple, efficient, painless.

It seemed, however, he was not the first person to get into his target’s office through questionable means.

As Arthur rounded the doorframe and got ready to shoot, he found his target was already (un)comfortably tied up in his chair. Someone else was standing at his computer presumably going through files. Arthur should not have been stunned—he should have been able to shoot his gun irrespective, and leave, throwing the blame onto the mystery individual. But he didn’t. He was too busy wondering why the fuck someone else was there, and how they had beaten him to it. 

“You know,” the man at the desk (tall, blonde, and seemingly carefree judging by how he turned around without a glimpse of worry or alarm as a gun was pointed at his head), “it’s quite rude to stare.”

Arthur said nothing.

The stranger glanced from the hitman to the gun, to the man he had tied up, and back to the hitman. “Let me guess, you were sent to kill him as well?” he remarked. At the silence, a soft laugh fell from thin lips and he smiled. “I think you’re a little late, _cher_ —” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun himself, pressing the barrel against the target’s temple. “—I was just finishing up here.”

“So it would seem,” Arthur exhaled calmly. There was still a way he could win this, he was sure; there was still a way he could save himself. He would not let this other contract killer—whoever the hell he was—ruin that. “I didn’t realise the target was so sought-after. I have never had this situation arise before, I will be honest…”

“A novice, are you?”

“No. I’m just used to smaller fish.”

“Ahh, was this meant to be your _meurtre d’or_?” the other asked him. Arthur would hazard to say he was French and not just putting on the awful accent, but at this point, who knew? _Just over ten minutes to go, Arthur. You can still kill your target_ — _the trick’ll be not getting shot by this bastard…_ “I apologise, if I had known then perhaps I would have waited. I am really only here for the computer drive.”

That was a little unexpected. Just for the computer drive? It must have contained something important, but to Arthur, that didn’t matter. This could make things a little easier if he negotiated… 

“Why not save yourself the bother then,” Arthur thus suggested, “and let me dispose of the target. You can have the drive. I’m only here for the kill.”

The other blonde hummed pensive. He genuinely seemed to be contemplating it, to the point where he lowered his gun and slowly nodded. “Alright then,” he said, looking Arthur up and down. “I suppose I can live with that. Just do me a favour—no funny business. Shoot him, not me,” the Frenchman said. “People like us need to stick together. We are a dying trade—going extinct.”

Arthur almost laughed. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of trying,” he responded. 

While the other returned to the computer, his gun going down onto the desk ( _he trusts me way too much, Jesus… How am_ I _the novice?_ ), Arthur made his move and came to stand in the centre of the room. Behind him, the sun shone through the window, casting his shadow long and dark. He knew from the outside, the gathered crowd would not be able to see what was going on, but a part of him let their cries become encouragement, cheer, congratulations.

He aimed his gun at the target’s forehead. _A nice clean shot._ Inhale. Exhale. He had his contractor’s message hanging on the tip of his tongue.

But someone else spoke when his mouth opened: “Sorry to interrupt you both, but I think you’ll find that computer drive _and_ this kill are both mine.”

Somewhat startled, Arthur whipped around to meet this new figure. He was quite prepared to shoot them if the need arose. Behind him, Francis groaned.

“Oh, _merde_ , did they really send _you_ here as well? Damn Americans…”

“Hey, don’t talk shit about my contractors, Francey-Pants, or I’ll talk shit about yours.”

Arthur watched in silent bewilderment at this third individual paced around him and towards the desk. His hair was short and silvery, though his features were youthful, and he seemed pretty well kitted with guns, knives, and even the odd piece of body armour. _Someone means business_ , was Arthur’s first thought, prompt followed by: _why the fuck is there a third guy here?_

He was really starting to question what sort of messed up shit his target was up to. 

“While I appreciate the sentiment, Gilbert, I do not think _I_ am the one who will be in trouble for you ‘talking shit’ about my hiring friends,” the blonde had continued. “The Russians already have it out for you. You are lucky I haven’t shot you myself…”

The other—Gilbert?—snorted a laugh. “As if you would, Fran! You care too much about that… _fraternité_ bullshit, like we’re all in some secret club together,” he remarked, a grin spread on his face as though he were highly amused. Perhaps he was. "You wouldn't even try it."

Meanwhile: “I’m sorry to interrupt this little reunion of yours,” Arthur spoke up, feeling a bit too much like a fly on the wall, “but I’m confused. Do you two… _know_ each other?”

"Yes," they both said in unison.

'Gilbert' explained: "Francis here works for the Russians. I work for the Americans. As you can imagine, when someone becomes a problem politically, we tend to cross paths."

"To clarify," 'Francis' then picked up, "I do not work for the Russian government. I just do a lot of side work for a… private organisation that so happens to _be_ Russian," he clarified. It wasn't as if Arthur couldn't guess—that would make Francis a part-time enforcer rather than just any old hitman. It meant he had more experience. It meant he probably also had the Russian Mafia behind him. "Meanwhile, Gilbert just works for whoever pays best."

"Can you blame a guy for wanting to make a living?"

 _That means Gilbert is not an enforcer. So… mercenary, perhaps? He seems like military material_ , Arthur mused after looking the German up and down, and a quick glance behind him revealed a hole in the ceiling panels. That seemed _very_ military secret-ops. Who the hell climbed through vents these days? Someone who didn’t blend in well to his surroundings, he supposed. Gilbert _did_ seem to be quite… atypical in his appearance, especially amongst the Turkish population. _And I thought_ I _was pale…_

"No," Francis replied to the other’s remark all the while. His gun had fallen back into his hand at some point. Arthur was deciding which of them would be wiser to shoot first if things went tits up (probably Gilbert; he and Francis could salvage their deal with ease). "I can, however, start to get frustrated when this is the _third time in a row_ I have had to deal with you interrupting my work."

“You’re the one interrupting _me_ , I think you’ll find,” the mercenary threw back. “I have thirty-thousand resting on that computer drive, and you owe me after last time. You remember Bosnia, right?”

Francis tutted and cursed under his breath. “I do owe you, don’t I?” he huffed. 

“ _Fraternité_ ,” Gilbert grinned back at him. “I saved your ass.”

“Do I at least get paid for my efforts?”

“ _What_ effort?”

“ _This_ effort,” Francis said, gesturing to their mutual target. He was still tied up in his seat and he looked quite frantic—though, Arthur supposed that was fair, given that there were now three people there who were prepared to kill him.

Talk about being hated.

While Francis and Gilbert continued their back-and-forth conversation, Arthur decided to keep quiet and let them debate it out. This was a first for him and he would have been lying if he said the situation did not intrigue him (as much as it was infuriating him), and either way, as long as they let him finish the job then he couldn’t give a rat’s ass about who took the drive. It wasn’t in his contract, so it wasn’t his business. 

Yet, as they spoke, Arthur’s gaze returned to the government official in his chair. He was making noise—as much noise as he could, given the cloth shoved into his mouth—and his eyes were set on the adjacent room. _What in God’s name is he staring at?_ Arthur followed his gaze. The answer to his question came as a man stood in the doorway, files clutched to his chest, staring with (mild?) confusion at the scene in front of him.

He said something that was presumably in Turkish. Arthur counted his lucky stars that the stranger hadn’t screamed instead. Of course, when no one replied to whatever it was he had said, he submitted to everyone’s default language ( _God bless the lingua franca_ ).

“Am I… interrupting something?” he asked.

That was not exactly what Arthur had expected him to say, but it could have been much weirder, he supposed. He wouldn’t have been surprised, based on how the day was going so far… 

“What do _you_ think?” Gilbert replied all the same. His brow had been raised, as had his attitude, and Arthur noted his grip on his gun had tightened. If this idiot got trigger-happy, Arthur would be sure to return the favour for jeopardising the entire hit. _This is why people like us need to work alone._

Even so, this did not deter the brunette. “What _I_ think,” he said, his accent not very thick, and not… _that_ similar to how the Turkish people he had met spoke English. Was he not a local…? “is that your meeting has overrun. It is now three o’clock. And I have business to conduct with my good friend, here.”

A quick glance at the target revealed that they were not ‘good friends’ at all. The target was shaking his head desperately. He even tried again to get out of his seat, but Francis held the chair still so it didn’t fall over and cause a commotion. When Arthur looked back at the brunette, a smile had fallen onto his face, eyes still locked on Gilbert. _Oh good_ , he thought, _he seems perfectly sane._

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate you escorting yourselves out so I can get on with work,” the brunette went on, and his green eyes soon tralied over to the tied-up man. His smile almost shone. “We have a lot to discuss. And I would hate for the guards standing outside those doors to get suspicious as to why you—” He nodded to Arthur. “—haven’t yet left the room.”

Arthur was stunned. “How do you know a guard isn’t supposed to be stationed in this room?”

“The same way I know that _you_ are very uncomfortable in this current situation, that _you_ —” He pointed now to Gilbert. “—are seconds away from shooting someone—probably our novice over here—” Arthur took offence at that. “—and that _he_ —” He jabbed a thumb towards Francis. “—has already pocketed that computer drive. What does it contain? Is it more arms dealing stuff?”

Francis shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Fran, you owe me, remember?” Gilbert then frowned and huffed. Arthur could have sworn he was even starting to pout, like a petulant child. “That drive was meant to be mine! I was going to give you a cut!”

“You can have a copy, the Americans don’t need to know…”

“Yeah, but I think they’ll _mind_! What do you want, another Cold War?”

“Computer drive aside,” Arthur spoke up, before things got out of hand, “this situation seriously can’t be normal for you guys, right?"

At that, the brunette snorted. “Before you jump to conclusions, unlike you, I wasn’t hired to come here and shoot his brains out," he explained. But then he stopped, spent two seconds thinking about something and then clarified: “I mean, that doesn’t mean I _wouldn’t_ do it—it would give me great pleasure to do so—but I’m here on other _personal_ business, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”

The other hummed pensively. “He owes me money for a favour I did for him about three months ago. He thought he could short-change me, and that I’d be okay with it…”

“Ohh,” Francis mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. It seemed to be a sound of understanding and empathy: “I have been there, _cher_ , it really is quite a pain.”

“I know, right? I mean, it’s going to be a bigger pain for _him_ in the end, but still, it’s really really rude!” the brunette fervently agreed with a grin. Arthur shared a look with Gilbert, who seemed just as confused yet disinterested as the Brit felt. “Nevertheless,” he went on, “I seem to be here on different business to the rest of you. So please, feel free to leave us both alone and fight over that computer drive elsewhere. I like my privacy."

"What, and leave you here alone with him so you can do whatever the hell you like?”

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much!”

“I don't think so, _kumpel_ ," Gilbert responded. “We got here first.”

In the span of five seconds, three things happened: firstly, Gilbert clicked off the safety on his gun and began to raise it, no doubt aiming for their new peer; secondly, Arthur went to point out to Gilbert that _Francis_ technically got there first, so he could stick it; and thirdly, a knife came flying past Arthur's face towards Gilbert.

As the sixth second ticked on by, a pile of duff files fell to the ground and the knife made contact with the wall just behind the German, narrowly missing his head. The gun went unfired and the four of them—target included—gawked at the brazen figure.

The brunette's smile was gone.

"You missed," Gilbert quickly quipped, though his gun went back down and he seemed to not be quite able to make prolonged eye contact with the brunette. 

"Believe me, if my intention had been to kill you, you'd be on the ground already bleeding out," he reassured him. 

Meanwhile, Francis seemed to be in awe of him, more than anything. His mouth opened and closed two or three times as he searched for words. _Frogs. Such slimy things…_ "That was quite impressive," he eventually forced out. "I take it you are… like the rest of us?"

"A fourth hitman?” Arthur remarked incredulously.

“Talk about overkill,” Gilbert concurred. 

“I’m not a hitman, but I suppose that’s close enough,” the brunette smiled at Arthur. It was soft, calm—just like the average ‘friendly’ smile. Like they weren't discussing murder. And then yet more surprising, the man pulled his own gun out from a holster under his jacket and pointed it right at Francis, of all people. “Do me a favour," he said. "I need my dear friend's hand.”

“His…” The Frenchman glanced warily at the target, and then back. “His hand?”

“Yes. His hand. _Mano_. _Main,_ ” the fourth hitman-not-hitman clarified. “But if you’d rather he stayed seated, I don’t mind you cutting it off for me to use. I have a knife with me.”

That caused great distress in the tied-up man. Arthur almost found it amusing. Surely having his hand chopped off was the least of his worries, right?

All the same, Francis scoffed. “Cut off his hand yourself,” he responded, seemingly disgusted so suddenly by the thought of bloodshed. ( _Even though he would have painted the walls red himself, quite happily, five minutes ago; or probably watched this guy filet Gilbert's face_ ). “I don’t like overly messy jobs.”

“This looks pretty messy to me already, Fran, I won’t lie,” Gilbert tutted out of the corner of his mouth. “Why _are_ there four of us? For realsies?”

“Mere coincidence,” the brunette told him with a shrug. “But regardless, I need his hand over here so I can get what I need and be on my way. And since you’re all so keen to stay, you can help me, instead.”

Gilbert scoffed ( _glad to see he’s recovered from nearly losing an ear_ ). “Why should we?”

“Because there’s more than enough cash hiding in this room for all four of us.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“In his safe, _duh._ ”

It was a small relief when his gun was lowered, and he walked over to the other wall adjacent to the windows and balcony. Bookshelves lined it and encircled two paintings—one of the current President of Turkey, and the other, a landscape work depicting the War of Independence. He walked to the first, which was closer to the windows, and he hooked his fingers around the left edge of the frame. Arthur expected it to fall for a moment, for noise to come—but all that happened was that the portrait swung outwards, revealing the dark metal of a safe door embedded in the wall.

There were two panels: a pin pad for a code and a—

“A biometric scanner…?”

“That’s why I need his hand,” the brunette said, confirming Francis' distant observation. “I know the code—that’s the easy part. I just need his prints.”

“Okay, fine,” Arthur then concurred, “that’s reasonable enough. But you said this was from three months ago. So you’ve waited so long to do this because…?”

The man gestured towards the windows. The cheers and taunts of the protesters outside rang loud even through the glass panes, but whatever point it was he was trying to make, it went unclarified. Instead, he marched right over to the desk and turned his head to Francis, and promptly said: “I need his hand to get to the money. Your choice, _shaqiq._ We cut the hand or cut the ropes.”

Francis chose to not amputate the man in the end. _Shame_. While the pair were sorting out ropes and ties to get the target over to the safe, Gilbert made himself comfortable on one of the other chairs in the room. He seemed quite tired and fed-up ( _I can’t really blame him_ ). Arthur decided to sit down with him, just to give his feet and his brain a rest—he was still trying to process everything that was going on. 

This guy wanted his money, Francis wanted the computer drive, Gilbert wanted the drive and blood, and Arthur just wanted this hundredth contracted kill to go smoothly so he would no longer be considered a ‘newbie’ (even though he was already far from it). His Gateway Hit was within reach. He could get his gun out right now, shoot the target in the back of the head (Francis and his new friend were wrestling with his arm, trying to get him to open the safe—the fact that he was still fighting despite being outnumbered was both impressive yet in poor taste) and go, call his ‘security colleagues’ out front and send them in as a diversion and make his getaway in the meantime. 

He could do it. But he didn’t.

“So,” Gilbert said quietly between the two of them, presumably just wanting to make conversation to fill one void or another, “how long have you been in the game for?”

“The game?”

“The business.”

“Four years,” Arthur responded to the point. He looked away and saw a quiet cheer of success as the handprint was accepted, and the brunette started to type in the code. The safe popped softly open. “And you?”

“Five,” Gilbert said. “You got a name?”

“Everyone has a name.”

“So what’s yours?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because you know mine.”

It was a fair point and something told him Gilbert was of the pestering nature when he wanted to know something. “Call me Arthur,” the Brit therefore surrendered in turn. 

Satisfied with that, Gilbert nodded and quietly thanked him, before he called over to the brunette and asked him the very same question. Apparently he was called Antonio, and Antonio was far less concerned about handing out his name to people. _To each their own._ Gilbert did him the favour of introducing the rest of them to him in turn. Antonio said no more on the matter, far too engrossed in rifling through stacks of money in the safe. 

A bundle was soon thrown at Gilbert and another at Arthur. It was a stack of a hundred thousand Turkish lira—very nearly worth ten thousand British pounds. Mind you, in euros, it was worth a little bit more, but Arthur wasn’t in it for money, so he didn’t care all that much. He would get a bigger payout if he could kill the target uninterrupted. 

“Hey, Arthur?”

The Brit looked up at Antonio, who was smiling (more naturally and calmly than his previous attempts) at him, and he gave a questioning look. _Please don’t ask me to amputate a leg or carve out an eyeball…_

“Francis tells me this is lucky number one-hundred?”

 _Ah, they’re already gossiping like best friends. Charming._ But he nodded all the while because there was no point lying about it.

“Then I’ll let you have the honours,” Antonio told him, gesturing to his ‘good friend’, Mr. Mutual Target.

Arthur was not going to protest. He stood up without a second thought and got his gun ready. He still had that message he was supposed to pass on, but his contractor would not know either way whether he had said it and he couldn’t be bothered any more with the details, with the pretence, with the farce. He just wanted this over and done with. He just wanted to shoot and leave.

“Why does he get to do it?” Gilbert questioned while Arthur moved. He paid him no mind.

“It’s his _meutre d’or_ ,” Francis replied with a sigh, as though he had explained this a million times already. “Just let him have it!”

“If you let me have the drive.”

“I told you, I’ll give you a copy! That’s all I can offer, and you know it.”

“Fine… But then you still owe me after Bosnia.”

“Fair is fair…”

“Are you two done?” Antonio asked them. “I mean, this friendship thing you’ve got going for you is really sweet and I’m sort of jealous, but we are short on time.”

“But you booked an appointment…?” Francis reminded him.

“Yeah? And I also planted a small explosive that will lead to the evacuation of this building in approximately five minutes to cover an escape.”

That was news to everyone but Antonio didn’t seem to care. In general, he had this air of ‘ _eh, whatever_ ’ about him, but everyone knew the most careless tended to be the most dangerous. It meant they had no regard for their own safety—nor that of their peers. Gilbert had a similar front to him, but based on his reaction to his eye nearly being taken out by a knife, he at least seemed to have some sense of mortality. 

Antonio was synonymous with trouble, it was official.

“You didn’t want to tell us that before?” Gilbert questioned. He had noticeably gotten off his ass and, quite sensibly, was nearer to the door out of the room—their way out. 

“We’re on borrowed time anyway,” Antonio replied indifferently. What he meant by that was unclear, but no one questioned it—it would only waste more time. The brunette told Francis to hold their target still and promptly turned to Arthur to order: “Shoot him when you’re ready.”

 _Fucking finally._ It was his time to shine, his time to excel, his time to pass into that higher bracket and earn those golden stripes.

He left no build-up. He said no words. He made no fuss. Arthur simply raised his gun and looked the target in the eyes, and before anyone (read: Gilbert) had a chance to react, he pulled the trigger. The gun hissed with the firing of the single silenced bullet, and it pierced the man’s forehead. He was dead before he hit the ground.

“Welcome to the big league, _frère_ ,” Francis congratulated him first with a smile. “It doesn’t get any easier from here.”

Arthur nodded to himself. His gaze lingered on the body—on the impermanence of human life—and he forced himself to look away—at Francis. “Thanks,” he replied, barely smiling back. He was truly happy inside but it was a strange, frail happiness. There was still so much that could go wrong. They could still get caught. Arthur needed to get out of there fast.

Unlike Arthur, however, Francis was more keen to celebrate: “I propose dinner,” he said. Antonio was doing his own thing at the safe (it looked like he had pocketed something—something small and white) and Gilbert was muttering something about compensation, taking Arthur’s abandoned bundle of cash for himself. “For all of us, tonight. I know it is not something we would normally do, but these are rather remarkable circumstances. And I would very much like to know more about all of you.”

“It’s a nice idea,” Antonio concurred. He pulled out the last few stacks of cash from the safe and closed it, pushing the portrait back against the wall as he even suggested: “There’s a nice, quiet place down at the port near the Blue Mosque. A local place—no tourists. And the food is pretty good.”

“Wait, you’re actually considering going out for dinner with this guy?” Gilbert then chimed in, jabbing a thumb towards Francis. “Seriously?”

The French blonde gave a haughty scoff. “Just because _you_ say ‘no’ each time I offer does not mean that other people have to.” He turned to Arthur. “What do _you_ say? I’ll buy you a drink, a little congratulations for you.” He even waved his cash in the air, his smile turning playful as he winked and said: “I think I can afford it, now.”

“Well, if you’re offering. I’ll be sure to order the champagne,” Arthur responded with a slight smirk spreading on his face. 

He couldn’t say what had really led him to such a conclusion. Francis was amicable, Gilbert was confusing and Antonio was just _weird_ , yet, now that he was technically part of this exclusive club—the big league, as Francis had put it—a night off was not such a bad idea. Maybe he could learn a thing or two about the others, and from tomorrow, he could then merely hope to never see them again. _Such a luxury can’t come soon enough._ Fingers crossed, none of his future hits would get invaded like this… 

Gilbert relented in the end and agreed. Francis told them to be there (wherever ‘there’ was; Antonio had not disclosed the name of this mysterious restaurant) for seven and he had seemed genuinely pleased that they had decided to meet again. Arthur thought it was actually rather… sweet and endearing. He supposed in their line of work, knowing other people more intimately than as a passing face was not commonplace—it wasn’t done. To see how that made him so contented and happy gave Arthur a strange feeling of his own—an emotion he couldn’t place.

And then he noticed that Antonio was stuffing the remaining cash—worth God knew how much sterling—into the pockets and jacket of the dead man. 

His strange feeling vanished rather quickly.

“Can one of you give me a hand just lifting the body?” Antonio requested. No one moved right away, but Gilbert soon caved and obliged; he took the legs while the other took the arms. “Be prepared to make a quick getaway, you two,” he then said to Francis and Arthur. “The explosion will be in thirty seconds—” _How is he timing this?_ “—and Gilbert and I will take a different escape route.”

“Why me?” Gilbert questioned.

“Because,” Antonio said, “you’re helping me chuck the body out the window and that is kind of going to give us away, so we need to flee outside as well, into the crowd of protestors, and out into the stree—”

“Why are you chucking him out of the window?”

“ _We_ are chucking him out of the window.”

“But _why_?”

“I’m an assassin; I do things for politics, not for money,” Antonio explained to him. “And I just _love_ a classic defenestration.”

About five seconds sooner than they had been told (Arthur had been timing it for himself and, as predicted, Antonio was not all about precision) the dull, low explosion alerted everyone within the building (it sounded small—most likely a fun little pipe bomb shoved in a bin somewhere) and the four of them got right into action. Any second, those guards would come running through those doors.

Arthur and Francis looked to each other with the exact same two thoughts dwelling in their eyes: one, _fuck_ Antonio; two, _barricade the door_.

Together they closed the double doors and Francis took a hanging sword from a wall display, sliding it through the handles to keep the door closed. Arthur added a chair hooked under the handles, just in case. It would hold for now. It was the best improvisation they could perform.

“Take my vent path in the ceiling,” Gilbert then told them as he and Antonio were lugging the body towards the doors. Antonio kicked the doors open behind him, the frames clattering against the stone walls, but Gilbert tried to instruct them over the noise: “It’ll take you to the roof, and there are ropes down to the ground on the eastern wall.”

From there, everything happened so fast.

The doors started rattling and shouts came from the other side. Francis moved a chair below the hole in the ceiling and encouraged Arthur to go first—with force. Antonio and Gilbert tipped the body over the balcony edge. The crowd cried in brief horror, but the money must have loosened because soon cheers drowned out any shock they had. The pair wished the blondes luck and hurried off. Arthur climbed up into the ceiling with a boost from Francis. He helped Francis up after him and replaced the ceiling tile that Gilbert had earlier removed. The building’s fire alarm rang loud. They crawled for several minutes until they found an open vent in the roof and they made it into the open air. They raced for the ropes and clambered down, and heard a distant helicopter arriving as their feet touched the ground. Francis dragged him in the direction of a marketplace so they could disappear.

Arthur finally caught his breath about twenty minutes later, when the two of them had found a group of tourists to hide amongst, Arthur swapping his disguise for his undershirt and a stolen scarf, bag (for his gun) and hat. The pair stuck together for around half an hour in all, before Francis suggested they split up—they would see each other in a few hours’ time at the restaurant. He left Arthur his business mobile number in case he ran into any trouble. Arthur thanked him and did the same in return, before parting in the direction of his hotel.

Even as he sat on his bed, took off his stolen accessories, and had some water, it still felt so incredibly surreal.

Arthur had done it. He had completed his hundredth contract in the most convoluted, complicated and crazy way imaginable in their line of business. He had _done_ it. But he had also met three people—people like him, with flaws and curiosities—that he had openly decided to meet again because, _for some reason_ , he had found them all so fascinatingly odd. So unlike him yet identical to him in every way at the same time.

Never had he met someone of his profession whilst working. Was this something they did? Gilbert had been against it; Antonio had been eager. Francis had been the one to offer; Arthur had been the one to accept. Why? He didn’t quite know. Maybe like Francis, he just wanted to know more about them (he could learn from them; they were all more experienced, all more travelled and wisened). Maybe he just wanted to not be alone. 

When he walked down to the port that evening, making sure he would be a few minutes late (he hadn’t wanted to seem _too_ keen, _too_ needy), he found Francis, Gilbert and Antonio waiting on the street. Francis was lighting Antonio’s cigarette, his own hanging from his lips, and Gilbert’s arms were folded tight across his chest, eyes watching those around them.

He was the one who saw Arthur first.

The German greeted him with a nod and Arthur joined them, apologising for his tardiness, turning down the offer of a smoke, and soon integrating himself into a rather unusual but semi-amusing conversation about people's favourite forms of potato (apparently Gilbert had gotten them started but was now stuck between Francis' insistence that it was ' _gratin ou rien_ ', and Antonio's rebuttal that potato gratin was pure slop that belonged in a pig's trough).

In the end, Gilbert had directed them on towards the restaurant of choice before a second person was killed that day ( _never insult a Frenchman's food!_ ) and soon enough, the four of them were sitting around a table in the corner of the portside establishment. It was quaint and it was quiet. Francis ordered some wine, Gilbert insisted he would be on the beer and Arthur said 'amen' to that, and within the hour, they were eating together and laughing over all sorts of stories of mishaps and mischief from their adventures, as though they were old friends catching up after a summer apart.

That strange feeling settled in Arthur once more. He looked at three of them: at Francis laughing, head thrown back; at Antonio, who poorly hid his grin in his wine glass; at Gilbert, who was hunched over his plate as he tried not to cackle too loud for the third time so far that evening. There was just something about them—about being around them—that brought Arthur this warmth and satisfaction no previous job had given him. But… rather than urging it away or burying it, he let that feeling get comfortable against his better judgement, and he devoted himself to enjoying the night while it lasted. He told himself: _this is temporary, this is just one night of fun to celebrate your victory, Arthur; you did it._

A lot happened in the hours that followed. Restaurant became bar became Francis' hotel room. Only where Gilbert and Arthur had expected something of a sexual nature to take place (Antonio, it appeared, was up for anything), the four ended up sitting on the pressed sheets of the double bed together discussing the most ludicrous thing they had ever heard:

" _Fraternité_ ," Francis proposed to them, "but a proper sort of organised… _thing_." He had had a good bottle of wine to himself over the last three hours; his words were slightly drawled out but no one doubted their sincerity. _In vino veritas_ , after all. "The four of us together—I think it would be _amazing._ "

"Let me get this straight," Gilbert said in turn; "you want us to get together like some… guild? A mini-organisation of professional killers? Because…?"

"Because working alone is so very _boring,_ _mon allemand_. And I _hate it._ "

"I don't know," Antonio spoke up, face scrunching up slightly as he did so. "While I like the idea of teamwork, at the same time, I've known you guys for no more than a day… And you all seem great, don't get me wrong! But… you shouldn't have sex on the first date if you want it to last. Advice for life!"

"Who here is talking about sex…?"

"I'm happy to talk about sex; who is asking?"

"Hands off, Francey-Pants. I will kick you off the bed."

"But this is my room!"

"And this is _my_ personal bubble. Stay out of it!"

"How wonderful it is that we can all get along like civilised human beings. Tell me, Francis," Arthur said, "why the _fuck_ do you think this is a good idea?"

"Ahhh, I am so glad you asked! Here, let me give you all a fun little presentation—I spent a few hours on it this afternoon, so I promise you, it will be worth it!"

Somehow, Francis' 'little presentation' ended up being a half-hour talk on why the four of them should team up. And it was not as terrible as anyone had expected. And somehow, by the end of the night, when Gilbert (armed with a copy of that computer drive) and Arthur decided it would be a good time to go (Antonio had ordered a new bottle wine from room service in the meantime), the four of them had come to a unanimous decision:

They would not form anything serious right away. But in a month's time, they would review where they stood. They would get together in Paris, where Francis lived, and they would discuss their options, their ideas, and so on and so forth. Then and only then would they confirm whether or not this was truly something they wanted to try. It was a sound agreement, and it had been reached with pleasantries and decorum. Everyone had exchanged business numbers. Everyone had said their goodbyes (well, minus Antonio and Francis). And everyone had seemed content.

Arthur had not expected his day—his hundredth contract—to turn out the way it did. 

A year down the line, he would be extremely grateful for that fateful day, for the three strangers he had met, and the fearsome bonds they would all forge together.

**Author's Note:**

> y e s i am planning other one shots around this au, just you try n stop me.  
> (i mean this turned into a massive thing, i was aiming for ~4k words so oops? call me addicted? writing Arthur's pov is kinda nice?? and i made him suffer a bit but it was all worth Gilbert's 'overkill' line of pure cimedy gold because i'm original???)
> 
> and pls forgive me if this is actually messy in places with style/neatness/pLoT. it's currently 1am and i did some editing but i'm also tired and achy and i'm feeling that 'eh, whatever' vibe rn so this is is. this is what you have been given. i hope you l i k e y ... :)


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